may my heart always be open to little

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
what ever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them
men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right
they are not young

and may my self do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been
quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

e e cummings

now I have to learn to pout my lips

Today at work I recieved an e-mail from the cute girl from Lick. She asked if I was on Friendster. It was a bit of a reminder. “Oh yeah! Freiiindster…” I don’t know what it is about that community. Something about it is infinitly forgettable.

Ian is on his way over now. The plan is to hopefully fetch him some fishnets. After we’re to pick up Dominique then go off to the photoshoot. There’s a bit of trepidation in this. Nothing much. His site isn’t particularly interesting, but as well the fellow continues asking me to bring lingerie after I’ve stated that I don’t have ANY. (I’m hoping a corset will count) My biggest consolation is that no matter how dull the pictures turn out, there can be nothing worse than the ones from January. It’s like an ace in the hole. The thought of having two people along will likely be nicer than as well than only one like for the last two. This way there’s someone to talk to. *grins* Afterwards, I don’t know what the plan is to be, but I’m sure we’ll think of somehting. We’re imaginative people.

Ah well – off to practice Jezabel.

letter to gavin

Mishka’s over tonight. She’s talking about her boy, Allan. I took her to fetish night a month or two ago and now she’s caught up in him. Seems to be some communication issues though. Her candor is more than hilarious. “He’s not what I expected” “why? what were you expecting? You did find him at fetish night” “I expected him to be an asshole” Now she’s in the other room borrowing my toothbrush.

You’ve been haunting me tonight. The spectre of your thought won’t let me alone. I was accidently off-line for a few hours and now I feel I must have missed you, though there’s no letter. No voice anointed words sweetly waiting to sink into my eyes. Calm, of course, conquers, but I’m feeling a little less gorgeous. *grinning* I know when I meet you, you’re going to be a little bit more than I think you to be because I’m seeming to not even ponder upon it. I catch myself in the mirror and there’s just a moment where you’re there. Tableau as stylized formulated as an old oil triptych. And now with sound, though hollow over distance.

*missing you*


not so unexpected surprise

It was interesting to picture you tall at a payphone. I could feel your smile like heat, sunwarmth on my skin. Your back to the phone, looking away, out a window. Trying to see the people you must be watching walk by. I sat in my window alcove in a nest of vivd silks. Bright lit and bare feet. Your voice subtly different, your vocabulary shifted. Thinking I should worry a moment, but click smooth slide into conversation.

I want to call you back to me, but I don’t have a number to dial. The days are numbered maybe so, but i’m not finding waiting hard. I think you feel a pressure that I’m letting glide past me into nothing. It’s my turn to find you wrapped in a sheet. A present, a gift, with a candy cherry bow. I still don’t know if you’ll know me now.

spam moore

I’m sure everyone reading this has encounted spamdada. It go through my junk-mail now. Every day now, hunting for treasures.

Today, I found this:

Sent : June 28, 2004 6:39:01 PM
Subject : micheal moore arrested

Increase your sperm count
Increase the width of your penis
Increase the length of your penis
Increase testosterone levels
Have harder,longer erections

Click the link for more information

They’re getting smarter.

postmodern panopoly

Glenda the parking ghoddess
– appears as on old woman in hot pink rollar skates.
– her icon may sometimes be found wrinkling on the back of bathroom doors.
She is the wise Lady of the Tarmac. Invoking her name brings empty parking stalls in convenient places and wards off the Anti-Destination League.

Enid, ghoddess of condiments
– appears as a white pillar of salt
– her icon may be found in any truckstop diner
She is the Lady of Spice, of zest and french fries. Her blood runs as vinegar. Invoking her name improves the odds of finding edible food at two a.m.

the sun, it rises as well as sets

The usual wake-up dance of hand up and over, glasses flick and computer keys. I keep waking before the morning chill has faded. It’s odd to touch it from the other side. The world getting warmer seems so far away and yet immediate. It should only get cold if you’ve been awake X hours into the night, not when one is only snapping into self. From dreams. It’s a different kind of cold than that in the evening. The air tastes different, and movement seems more brittle.

Mishka comes over today. She’s here from the Island finally. She’ll be staying the nights with me and I suppose most of her days. Hopefully this means I’ll have a chance to meet her Allan properly. A two-second hallo in a fetish club to a boy in rubber pants doesn’t tell me as much as it sounds.

Deadpan to Kyle on the bus last night:
“That’s right, because you know an empty receptacle screams your name louder.”

this hurt to watch

I’ve just come back from Fahrenheit 9/11 and I am very quiet. I don’t think I’m okay. There was family up on that screen. The opening sequence hurt me in spite of the strings, and I mean spite as when it meant something, I mean spit in your face. Planes crashed into those towers, and yet there were people there with cameras, pointing to the people instead of the sky. There were people with a “this should be seen” stride and sense of angle. Black, and the sound. Knowing immediately. Simply the sound.

They didn’t show the towers fall.